


Can You Give It All To Me?

by succor_punch



Series: The Photo Fiasco [2]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Daniel is a sultry temptress, Daniel is here to defend Johnny’s (questionable) virtue against the horny moms of Encino, Johnny learns about oven mitts, M/M, morosexuality – a disease without a cure, no beta we die like men, sexualizing old men on the internet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/succor_punch/pseuds/succor_punch
Summary: In the days that follow, Daniel keeps wishing the photos would die a speedy death already. When that doesn’t work, he starts a secret campaign to banish them from the internet.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: The Photo Fiasco [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191599
Comments: 46
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It turns out I have a terminal case of LawRusso and have to keep writing them to stave off death and/or insanity! This fic is a little angstier than the first installment, but there’s still a happy ending in store.

In the days that follow, Daniel keeps wishing the photos would die a speedy death already. When that doesn’t work, he starts a secret campaign to banish them from the internet.

He sics a tirade about common decency and corrupting children on the PTA Facebook group from a throwaway account. The photos vanish from that page, but he knows they’re still being circulated. The pictures are like weeds, springing up on new sites faster than Daniel can submit his complaints. He briefly loses his grip on reality when the Twitter account ‘@CobraKaiThickThighs’ shows up.

Their feed is nothing but memes of the photos with bizarre slangy slogans pasted in. Johnny photoshopped onto a weather map, captioned: ‘ _Today’s forecast: 99% chance of gains_.’ That photo of Johnny slouching against the rocks, tagged ‘ _Do you even lift, bro?_ ’. Johnny in that pathetic excuse for a shirt with ‘ _On my way to steal your girl_ ’ superimposed.

Fixing breakfast this morning, he'd broken into a stream-of-consciousness rant about how memes peaked with cats and how everything online eventually metastasizes. His performance earned a very perturbed look from Sam as she waited for him to plate her bananarama pancakes.

Anthony just tuned him out, but he hadn’t seen the first act of Daniel's breakdown over the Johnny photos like Sam. God-willing, he doesn't even know the pictures exist. Anyways, judging by the number of followers flocking to @CobraKaiThickThighs, most Twitter users don’t share Daniel's belief in sticking to cute animal pictures.

If Johnny’s adoring public only knew. Daniel’s kept tabs on Johnny since their... encounter, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t chasing any skirts these days.

And yeah, Daniel’s surveillance has included some clearly out-of-bounds stuff, like rousing himself after the rest of the house is asleep Wednesday to swing by Johnny’s complex and see whether his car is parked there.

So his intel says Johnny is spending his nights at home, and also... a bunch of livid hickeys is probably a handicap even Johnny can’t overcome. By the time Daniel was done biting him, Johnny looked like he'd been worked over by a couple of mob thugs, and that wouldn’t get a warm reception at the local bars.

And if thinking about the marks on Johnny's chest makes Daniel feel a little bit wild and agitated... Well, it’s nothing he can't fight down, because reviewing inventory at the dealership is neither the time nor the place to indulge in weird, territorial fantasies.

The sane move would be to ask Johnny what their deal is. Was it a one-time special, an exorcism of 30+ years of tension, or a prelude to something more serious? But talking about what happened is terrifying.

Fooling around with Johnny had made Daniel feel so much, he'd gone into a full-body reboot sequence. For six hours. Then he'd woken up, flipped out, and dashed.

He’s texted Johnny a couple of times since Tuesday night, but about safe subjects, like the shitty posthumous special on Eddie Van Halen he’d watched yesterday.

The replies have mostly come in the form of weird Emoji strings and Johnny-isms like “the hot 4 tchr vid was lgndary’. Nothing they wouldn’t have traded before their sudden intimacy two days ago.

But there are the careful, tactful messages that Daniel crafts, and there are the messages he types but doesn’t send. ‘ _I’m sorry I bolted_ ,’ and ‘ _What did it mean?_ ’ and ‘ _I can’t stop thinking about_ you.’

And yeah, Daniel is being a little guarded in his communication with Johnny, but the brusque replies haven’t exactly given him an opening. It’s hard to feel like they haven't regressed.

Days ago Daniel had dismantled Johnny. Stripped him of pretense, made him be honest and paid that honesty back in kind.

Just a couple spins around the earth's axis and Daniel goes from being daring to being timid. Johnny goes from being a live wire that jumps at Danny's touch to being an unmovable mountain.

(Well, not that they've touched, since the night that blew the lid off this whole... thing between them. But figuratively speaking.)

Now they were back to this; stilted texting about macho shit like hard rock bands from the 80's and the contenders for the AKA Warrior’s Cup.

It's especially hard to stomach these changes because Daniel was the one who screwed things up. He'd aced the practicum; the kissing, the necking, the pillow talk, the hand job. Even the impromptu nap afterwards had been nice for a time.

But, he didn't exactly stick the dismount. If Daniel had stopped and composed himself, he would've had... any sort of conversation with Johnny afterwards. Clued Johnny into what he wanted (which was to date Johnny, and yes that comes with an exclusivity clause).

Instead, the aftermath had gone like this:

###

Daniel startles awake at 11:12 PM in Johnny’s bed Tuesday night, naked and deeply disoriented. Daniel has never had those chest-paddle things used on him, but his return to consciousness is probably as sudden and shocking as getting zapped by a defibrillator.

It takes very little time to realize it’s fully dark outside and remember that his family has no idea of his whereabouts. Daniel swears as he slips free of the tangle of sheets and comforter. Johnny just starts to stir as Daniel recovers his cell phone from his Chino’s.

His fretting only intensifies when he sees the chain of frantic messages from his daughter and (ex?) wife. And Daniel is not a bystander type of guy, OK, when there’s a problem he rushes to fix it.

Sam and Amanda’s distress is a major problem, so he’s not about to go back to bed and laze around. It’ll tarnish his reputation as a family man if his family launches a search party or reports him missing because he’s fucked off to sleep with Johnny.

Now is not the time to be spellbound by Johnny’s mussed hair and warm skin and tendency to envelop whoever is sleeping next to him. So. Daniel starts gathering his things and getting dressed with military efficiency.

Johnny surfaces way slower, like a diver trying to evade the bends. He seems to stretch in slow motion, presses a gravelly inquisitive noise into the pillow. Makes a beckoning motion like he wants Daniel to come nest in the messy sheets with him again.

But Daniel is very busy putting his act together. In the space of seconds he’s slipped his briefs back on, hiked up his pants, and started searching for his socks. When Daniel finds the socks (including the sticky one), he does not perseverate over what to do: he decides to go sockless in his loafers.

Then, before Johnny can blink open his eyes, Daniel is striking out for the couch where he’d left his shirt. When his fingers catch against Johnny’s tank (his shirt had been cast aside right on top of Johnny’s) it almost takes the wind out of his sails, almost makes the scene from hours ago re-crystalize in his mind.

But then another “WHERE ARE U” message from Amanda flashes up on his phone, and the vision fades.

Behind him, Daniel hears more muttered exhortations from Johnny, probably calling him back to bed, but the sounds glance right off him. He’s already reclaimed his shirt, tugged at it to flatten the worst of the wrinkles.

And yeah, it occurs to him that he should say goodbye, but Daniel’s body is propelling him to the exit and his mind is already steps ahead, deliberating how he’ll explain his absence to his daughter and ex-wife. So he lets his feet carry him away.

Daniel has just enough presence of mind to check that Johnny’s door is the kind you can lock on the way out.

###

The courtesy probably hadn’t meant much to John, if he’d noticed at all. Daniel rationalized that at least he’d kept Johnny safe physically, even if he’d pulled an asshole move by hightailing it out of the apartment as soon as he woke up.

He’d told Amanda a partial truth, in the end. That he’d gone over there to warn Johnny his steamy beach photos were the talk of the town, and they’d wound up drinking and reminiscing and he lost track of time.

(Really, Johnny was the only one drinking, and the reminiscing had been more like Daniel recounting how impossibly, irrationally hot Johnny had been, but he did lose track of time during his six hour near-coma.)

The half-lie doesn’t help Daniel put any of it behind him.

He tries not to relive it, but his unconscious wants are a force of nature. They swell like a river in the rain until the water overflows, flood the levees. And then the fractured memories come.

The sly look in Johnny's eye when he clocked Daniel's less-than-platonic interest in his photos. How his bravado had melted as soon as Daniel acted on his interest.

Tasting the salt on Johnny’s neck and chest. How Johnny let Daniel push him, pin him against the hallway wall.

Johnny wrestling him out of his shirt like Daniel was wearing a suicide bomber vest and an explosion was imminent. The fervor of Johnny’s hands as he unhooked Daniel’s belt, got him undressed the rest of the way.

How he just... vibrated with want when Daniel started stroking him off. That ecstasy of the martyrs look on his face when he said _'Fuck. Oh Fuck_ ,' because Daniel had brought him right to the edge.

Even those little flashes send him reeling, unleash a sickening wash of heat. He has to press his water bottle against his face like a cold compress, so nobody walks in to see the boss tomato-red and sporting a furious erection.

(Well, he's not sure if the tomato bit is possible, because he's got the complexion of a Sicilian, but all the same.)

Daniel spends about 15 more minutes in denial, re-reading the same page in his stack of reports, before he stops pretending to be productive and heads out.

***

Daniel stops on his way home to pick up groceries. After raiding the produce section to get ingredients for eggplant caponata, he takes an ill-advised detour to the drinks aisle. 

Lining the chilled white cases on both sides are overpriced beverages promising to recalibrate body and soul. Macrobiotic ginger ale and chakra-balancing smoothies and anti-fungal kombucha, the works.

Daniel feels a little ridiculous when he grabs some green concoction, gets suckered in by the label’s talk of wholesome additives like wheatgrass and spirulina.

He likes healthy beverages – nothing wrong with that, thank you very much. But as much as it feels like a defensible position, he can’t help imagining Johnny’s sneer at this swamp-colored, overpriced sludge.

The drink’s called ‘Urban Remedy’. This strikes him as a lofty name - it sounds like an LA redistricting project, not a green smoothie. He should be a savvy consumer (he's a salesman, for Pete’s sake) but these advertisers know how to prey on Daniel's fear of becoming tubby and flabby.

Daniel is so busy knocking down the blond strawman in his head, at first he doesn’t notice the woman hovering a few feet away. But then:

“Daniel LaRusso! As I live and breathe.”

He looks at the speaker and she’s... familiar. She's roughly Daniel's age, built to SoCal mom factory specs. Streaky blond ponytail, white teeth, blue eyes. Yoga pants, a printed top under a cropped sweatshirt. Typical upper-crust athleisure wear.

Daniel racks his brain to place the face, and eventually dredges up a name:

“Marcy! Nice to see you.”

Marcy homes in on him like a missile.

“God, how long has it been? Since high school graduation, probably.”

Daniel is not really in a mood to shoot the breeze with some WVH alumna he’d all but forgotten about. But Lucille LaRusso raised him to have manners, so he grits his teeth and braces for inane small-talk.

“Yeah, I think you’re right! Time flies, huh?”

Marcy bobs her head energetically; it makes the charm bracelets bunched around her arm jangle. Daniel shouldn’t find the sound so irritating, like nails on a chalkboard, but he does.

“I hear you still do karate,” Marcy chirps. “You must be a real pro after practicing so long, huh?”

“I focus more on the teaching now, but I like to think I’m still getting something out of it, even as a 50-something geezer” Daniel says, and forces a self-deprecating smile.

“Oh, come off it! You look much younger.” Marcy laughs, flicking his shoulder with her manicured hand. Daniel’s body almost recoils from the touch, but he makes himself stand still.

Marcy pauses for a beat. “I remember how you and Johnny Lawrence used to fight – always spoiling for a showdown! What I wouldn’t have given for ringside tickets to your match in ’84.”

Daniel doesn’t like where this is going, but tries to keep his tone light.

“Well, we were hot-headed kids back then. I like to think we’ve mellowed out in our middle age.”

“Sure, sure,” she agrees, shifting her basket from one hand to the other. “I heard you two might’ve buried the hatchet, actually.” Marcy continues. She waggles her brows like she’s seeding a rumor to Daniel, instead of repeating his life back to him.

And Daniel’s heart stutters for a second, but he clings fast to his belief that nobody knows what happened between them. Johnny’s not the type who’d spread their private life around... right?

Then:

“That Johnny, he could’ve had his pick of girls in high school! I imagine he’s still a lady-killer even now,” she dangles.

Daniel starts to feel... strange, like something that’s been submerged in him is bubbling to the surface. He twists the label on his cold-pressed juice, which is now coated with condensation.

“Uh-huh,” Daniel says, noncommittally.

"I mean, he wasn't the intellectual type, but he certainly had swagger, you know?"

Daniel is pretty sure that Marcy is building to something. Wherever she's heading, he doesn't think he'll like the destination. He feels a kind of sub-dermal itch spread over his extremities, has to resist the urge to scratch.

“You wouldn’t have his number, would you?” Marcy ventures, batting her eyes and revealing the ridiculous wingspan of her false lashes. “I’d love to catch up.”

Because oh, of course. Of course that’s why this sycophant is cozying up to Daniel, because she wants Johnny’s digits.

Daniel’s half-assed smile freezes, turns into a sort of rictus. The _nerve_ of this woman, acting like they’re old friends when really, she sees Daniel as a glorified Rolodex with Johnny’s number.

Johnny, who she's chasing because... of the photos. Obviously. Daniel should've realized that two minutes ago. Maybe he's taken one too many blows to the head over the years.

Those fucking photos that won’t die. Daniel questions whether the internet is cursed like the Pet Semetary - every time you try to bury something there, it springs back up, twice as bad as before.

As he processes this, Marcy is looking at him concernedly.

"It's alright if you don't," she backpedals, probably reacting to Daniel's expression. “I just thought you might, you know – since you two are friends now.”

His hand spasms around the Urban Remedy and he doesn’t _mean_ to crush it, but. Suddenly there’s a crunch and the cap flies off and a geyser of viscous liquid shoots out, narrowly missing Marcy.

She looks at Daniel’s hand, still gripping the mangled drink bottle, and then down to the green splatter on the floor, and then back up to Daniel’s (now horrified) face. There is an awkward silence.

Marcy makes a peace offering: “They don’t make packaging as strong as they used to, huh? Bet it’s the whole green manufacturing agenda; those bottles are probably spun out of corn syrup or something.”

Objectively, this is nice of her. Marcy is surprisingly gracious despite Daniel's whole imploding a beverage with his fist thing. But.

She's also a married woman who is blatantly trying to hook up with Johnny. This does not endear her to him. Daniel reasons that he should get out of this conversation before he does anything else asinine.

As it turns out, any mention of or allusion to the photos is triggering for him now. This undermines Daniel's polite fiction that he is coping fine with other people being attracted to Johnny.

But that’s something for Daniel to unpack in private, not in the middle of a grocery store.

“Totally,” Daniel says, grasping for any sort of relevant reply. “What is there, a junta on plastic? Listen Marcy, it’s been good seeing you –” (it hasn’t) “but I’m kind of in a hurry and I’d better find somebody to mop this up.”

“Right!” Marcy says, looking relieved that she’s being cut loose. “I understand. Well, nice catching up with you a bit – see you around!”

And that’s Daniel’s cue, he could just saunter off with a friendly wave, not say another word to this barely-an-acquaintance woman. But as he sidesteps Marcy and the puddle of goo on the floor, Daniel can't help sticking her with a little barb.

"Give my regards to your husband, won't you?" he says with a breezy smile. "Hope Rob's doing well."

Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel sees Marcy blanch, but doesn't stick around to see how she responds. He is fully in Purposeful Stride™ mode and power-walking towards the exit.

Daniel should probably feel bad about that, feel like a hypocrite, given that he still wears his wedding band. But. It’s more of a habit now, it’s not _real_.

Daniel loves Amanda, he does, she's the mother of their children. But he also sees the way Anoush makes her smile. Anoush loves her unreservedly, with every atom and molecule in his body.

Sometimes it felt like straddling two worlds, being with Amanda. There was his home life, and there was karate. Shared domesticity is nice, but it's not enough to balance Daniel. Not completely.

Daniel’s so caught up in his introspection, he almost knocks over a teen in a green apron.

"Sorry," he blurts, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady him. "Listen, there’s a cleanup on aisle 12 situation," he confides, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “You might want to take care of that.”

The teenager blinks at him bewilderedly, but nods his head. Then Daniel is really sprinting for the express self-checkout. God, when did he become such a disaster of a human?

(And yeah, he has an idea of the answer to that question, but he can only blame Johnny Lawrence for so much turbulence in his life – right?)

***

The drive home doesn’t clear his head. Daniel has to rest against the steering wheel for a minute, do some deep breathing, in hopes that’ll stabilize him enough to go inside and engage with his family.

He’s still thinking about Marcy and all the other mom-predators who probably have their sights set on Johnny now.

About how stupidly presumptuous it was to call Johnny “his” the first time they so much as kissed each other, and follow that by passing out, and follow _that_ by wordlessly evacuating Johnny’s apartment in the night like it’d caught fire.

Given the trend in Daniel’s week, when his phone dings, he assumes it’s more bad news. Instead, blessedly, it’s a message from Johnny: _Mets vs Oklnd A's game Fri want 2 come ovr n watch_ _?_

Daniel barely stops himself from texting back YES immediately, because that would definitely read as overeager. But it’s hard not to return Johnny’s serve, spike the ball right back over the net, when Daniel’s heart is pounding and his blood is suddenly effervescent.

After taking a moment, Daniel sends: _Love to. I’ll bring food if you get drinks_.

Unsurprisingly, it takes Johnny longer to reply, probably because he’s pecking at his keypad with one finger: _Don't bring nething weird, has 2 b on the menu @ olive garden_.

Daniel rolls his eyes, even as something suspiciously like joy unfurls in his chest.

This means he hasn't totally scorched and salted the earth, right? Johnny still wants to see him. That's a start. And Daniel gets a shot at cooking for him. Even though Johnny's diet is mostly overprocessed garbage, Daniel's pretty sure he can be converted by some top-notch food.

He certainly won’t limit himself to the menu at Olive Garden, because that bullshit chain is an affront to Italians everywhere, but as long as Daniel includes a familiar protein and makes it salty enough, Johnny will probably get with the program.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, Lucille used to say. And if Daniel’s being honest, he wants to win over every part of Johnny, earn his loyalty, until there’s nothing left to stray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins! I tried valiantly to come up with a good name for the Twitter account but 'CobraKaiThickThighs' is all I got! So if anyone out there has a better handle, I am happy to take your suggestions.
> 
> P.S., Credit for the watching a ballgame as a pretext for a date idea goes to the estimable storyshark2005.
> 
> P.P.S., the placeholder for the grocery scene in my outline was "Daniel spills the green goo juice all over the floor and then runs away, but not before being a shady bitch about Marcy’s wedding ring."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daniel cannot dress to save his life, feeds Johnny some Italian food, and attempts reconciliation. Mangia mangia!

When the night comes around, Daniel dresses and undresses twice before calling for reinforcements.

Sam, like her mom, gives good sartorial advice, which is what Daniel needs. He brings her to the walk-in closet and fidgets in front of the mirror.

"Honey, I could use an impartial eye. I need to be, y'know, presentable," he settles on.

He's wearing a button-down and some freshly-ironed slacks. Sam looks at him appraisingly.

"What's the occasion? Client dinner?"

Daniel winces. Clearly he needs to be saved from himself.

"No, it's uh, watching a ballgame. But I want to look... nice," he hedges, already flustered.

Samantha's eyebrows shoot up to the rafters. Daniel marinates in his own awkwardness, which he's doing a lot these days.

"Dad, you don't have to like, cover it up if you're going on a date. Mom's been straight with me about Anoush."

Daniel wrings his hands.

"I don't know if it's a date," he confesses.

"But it's with someone you like, right?"

Daniel's deer-in-headlights look is probably answer enough.

"Yeah, this is too formal. What about the blue sweater? That looks nice with your coloring. And jeans, because he'll definitely be wearing jeans."

Sam’s choice of pronoun and reference to Johnny’s fashion sense makes Daniel tense up. He searches for something to say – should he deny it, try to throw her off the scent, come clean?

Samantha just regards him patiently as Daniel flounders. Finally, she says: “It’s the right play, Dad. Don’t stress out. You’re gonna be fine.”

Daniel stops thinking about how to regain control of the conversation and takes a breath. He draws Sam in for a hug and kisses the top of her head.

"I'm lucky to have you as a daughter."

Sam squeezes him and looks up fondly. "True. Now get changed and go get'em, tiger."

He shoos her out of the closet so he can trade his poor excuse for an outfit for something actually flattering. When he views the final ensemble in the mirror, he's still nervous, but at least he's not on the verge of hysteria. It'll have to do.

***

Daniel has to carefully balance the pan of chicken saltimbocca as he reaches to knock on Johnny's door. The fact that he's holding such a heavy, ungainly dish is helpful when he's tempted to run for it. Good thinking ahead, LaRusso.

And then it's too late to flee anyway, because Johnny's opened the door and Daniel's a little hypnotized. He's sporting some scruff and wearing that clingy coral t-shirt (Johnny would say it's red) over his customary jeans.

Daniel risks a glance at his neck and flushes when he sees his hickeys from three days ago haven't faded.

Johnny probably doesn't even know what concealer is, so in hindsight the odds of him picking some up to disguise the marks were low. He's barefoot, which is probably just a comfort thing but Daniel thrills at the casual-ness of it regardless.

Daniel stops ogling and manages a weak "Hi."

Johnny studies him too, but when he looks Daniel over it’s not lecherous, more mistrustful. Which Daniel can understand, given the circumstances of their parting.

“What’s that you got there?” he says, indicating the dish.

“Chicken saltimbocca,” Daniel says, grateful he has a topic to expand on. “Saltimbocca means ‘jumps in the mouth’ - classic Italian entree, you pound out some chicken cutlets, roll them up with sage and prosciutto (there is a distinct eyeroll at Daniel's pronunciation of 'pro-zhu-toh'), simmer them with some white wine –”

“Alright, alright,” Johnny interrupts, “I get it, it’s fancy. Just come in already.” He stands aside.

Daniel feels himself turn red at the ears as, for the second time this week, he sidles by Johnny. He catches a whiff of something woodsy-smelling as he edges past, inhales as covertly as possible.

Daniel sets the pan down on the counter. As an afterthought, he removes his shoes and leaves them by the door. (Johnny had laughed on Tuesday, when Daniel interrupted their race to the bed so he could take off his shoes and socks. And he does not enjoy being an object in of ridicule, so – just in case.)

When Daniel enters the kitchen, the first unfortunate words to tumble out of his mouth are:

"Oh, an oven. Thank goodness."

Johnny has tailed him to the kitchen and huffs at Daniel’s comment as he cracks a beer.

"Yeah, of course I have an oven. What'd you expect, a trashcan fire? Would've thought you'd noticed - ain't your first visit, LaRusso."

Daniel is caught between the sting of Johnny reverting to 'LaRusso' and the giddy feeling the mention of Tuesday night evokes. It's absurd how such little things can make his blood pump faster, now.

Daniel springs into action, preheating the oven to 375 and uncovering the pan. Johnny squints at the chicken suspiciously, then draws closer to smell the contents. He gives an approving nod.

“Smells good.”

Daniel feels his muscles unclench a little.

“Well, thanks for humoring me and trying this. I know my taste in food is a little... gourmet for your palette, but I think you’ll like it.”

Johnny smiles for the first time, lopsided and charming. “Yeah yeah, LaRusso, I know you’re a snob.”

So OK, he’s still LaRusso, but at least it doesn’t feel cold this time. And he wouldn’t say so out loud, but one of Johnny’s smiles can turn his worst day around. They’re a gift that keeps on giving.

Daniel studies the kitchen, partly to stop himself from staring at Johnny like a dope. He takes in the paper plates, napkins, and distinct lack of utensils. This is looking like more of a picnic situation than a dinner in.

“Oh. I probably should’ve brought finger food, shouldn’t I? Like, mozzarella sticks, or antipasto, or maybe wings...” he trails off and the oven beeps, as if to fill the silence.

Johnny shrugs and brushes past him to the stove, but he gives Daniel’s arm a conciliatory squeeze as he goes by. It's quick, blink-and-you'll-miss-it quick, but Daniel feels lit up from it just the same. Johnny opens the oven door and picks up the pan. As he somberly regards the chicken, Johnny says:

“Anything can be a finger food with the right attitude.”

And Daniel bursts into laughter, despite his view that this is a _terrible_ philosophy. Johnny smiles at him again, over his shoulder, and there's that burst of exhilaration again.

Even the fact that Johnny shoves the dish onto the rack unceremoniously, with bare hands, doesn’t dull Daniel’s high. But, he does privately resolve to see about sneaking some proper cookware into Johnny's kitchen. Johnny re-closes the oven and turns to Daniel.

"How long's it gotta heat for?"

"About 10 minutes."

Johnny nods and looks back to the stove. "These things usually have timers, right?"

Daniel swoops in and teaches him how to set the timer, relishing the proximity as they hover over the stove. He still wants to jump Johnny’s bones, but this is nice too, just sharing space.

After programming the timer they stand opposite each other, Daniel propped against the cabinetry and Johnny slumped against the counter.

He looks good doing it, no surprise. One brawny arm braced behind him, shirt hugging his chest, nursing his beer, laid-back as you please. Daniel swallows and summons his courage.

"I'm... glad that you asked me to come over, Johnny," he admits.

A funny look steals over Johnny's face, a fleeting twitch of the mouth, and then Johnny is busying himself opening the various drawers in his kitchen and pawing through them.

"Y’know, I think I have forks and knives somewhere," he says, by way of explanation. “Just don’t remember where.”

"Uh, OK," Daniel replies, not sure how to take his reaction. "I'll help look."

Then they’re both on a quest for the utensils, but Daniel stops short when he opens a drawer and finds something else – an oven mitt with an all-over floral print. He holds it up and exclaims:

“So you do have one!”

Johnny turns around and sees the mitt, then colors and rubs at the back of his neck.

“Pretty sure it was my mom’s,” he mutters.

Daniel wonders - he'd seen a washed-out photograph of a lady with wavy blonde hair on the refrigerator, who definitely wasn't Shannon.

Daniel crosses over to the fridge and takes a closer look. The woman in the picture is lovely, with kind eyes and a sweet smile, wearing a dainty halter dress. There's definitely a family resemblance.

“Is this her?” Daniel asks.

“Yeah.”

When Daniel looks back his face is transformed, softened around the eyes and smiling gently.

“She’s beautiful, Johnny,” Daniel says. “I think you owe a lot of your looks to her.”

Daniel sees how Johnny puffs up a little at that, peacock that he is.

"Yeah, she was special," Johnny says, more wistful than Daniel’s heard him before. "I just wish she hadn't, uh, been taken so soon. She died right before Robby was born."

Daniel's stomach drops in a fit of empathy.

"Oh, Johnny," he breathes, "I'm sorry." And he really is, and he also thinks he understands Johnny a little bit better now. “It’s nice, though, that you kept some things to remember her by.”

Johnny nods and shakes off the vestiges of grief.

“I should probably use this stuff and not just keep it in a drawer, huh?” he wonders aloud. “Speaking of... uh, when exactly do you use this?”

And then Daniel is laughing again, and Johnny seems to perk up at his obvious amusement.

“Oh my god, Johnny, it’s an oven mitt. You wear it to put things into the oven and take them out.”

Johnny makes a sort of ‘whatever’ dismissive face, but he seems curious enough to try it on. And boy, when Johnny gingerly putting on the mitt makes Daniel's heart brim with fondness – he knows he’s got it bad.

Daniel muscles past the feeling to make a suggestion: “Y’know, while the chicken heats, we could put the game on. It’s probably just the commentators now, but I don’t mind.”

Johnny seems on-board with the idea; he removes the girly oven mitt and snatches a second beer, which he promptly hands to Daniel.

“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head towards the living room. Daniel follows Johnny out. Johnny grabs the remote and turns the TV on, flips the channel to ESPN.

The real action hasn't started yet so the cameras are trained on the guys in the radio booth. The announcers are making a valiant effort to eat up the clock until the first pitch is thrown.

Johnny plops down on the sofa first, which puts Daniel in the torturous position of deciding where to sit.

First Daniel tries to filibuster: he leans back on the opposite armrest, glues his eyes to the TV like the broadcasters are so fascinating he can't bear to sit down. Because he cares so deeply about Ken Korach listing off the new inductees to the National Sports Media Association hall of fame.

He risks a look at Johnny out of the corner of his eye; Johnny’s making an inscrutable face and fiddling with the tab on his Coor’s Banquet. It’s unfair, this sudden opacity; normally Johnny’s body language is plenty loud and clear for Daniel to read.

If anything, they'd reached a new level of connection Tuesday - Daniel had felt the reverb of Johnny's pleasure like they shared a psychic link. They'd understood each other perfectly.

Now he doesn't know what the hell Johnny is thinking. Does he want Daniel to apologize, to make amends for his midnight disappearing act? If he says sorry do they go back to being just friends, or will they pick up where they left off, humping with the vigor of 20-somethings?

Or will they act their age and fess up to caring about each other, name what this thing between them is? And what comes after that?

Daniel hopes his internal spiral isn't written all over his face; in a bid to look casual, he shoves his hands in his jean pockets. Yeah, you're a real cool customer, LaRusso.

Johnny makes an irritated noise under his breath and says:

"Stop thinking so loud and sit your ass down. The couch doesn't bite."

So Daniel does as he's told. He perches halfway between Johnny and the other end of the couch. They’re not really that close, but his body sings with awareness that they’re in touching range.

Daniel decides to focus on the ballgame for real. Sports are foolproof, safe to talk about.

"Y'know who one of my favorites was on the Mets?" he asks.

“Who?” Johnny bites.

“R. A. Dickey. Great knuckleballer, won the Cy Young title in '12. But pitching aside, the guy was a total character. Named every one of his bats. One of them was called ‘Orchrist the Goblin Cleaver.’” 

Johnny snorts so hard he almost spills his beer.

“No way,” he says, still laughing, “where’d he get that from? Dungeons and Dragons?”

Daniel turns towards him and cocks an eyebrow. "You know what that is?"

"Only sorta," Johnny says, shrugging. "Demetri's into it. Sounds like nerd shit."

Daniel can’t help but smile, and Johnny smiles back, and it feels like the tension eases. They pass a few more minutes in companionable silence watching the commentators until the oven timer goes off.

Daniel hops up and dons the oven mitt (carefully, since it’s an heirloom) before turning off the timer and removing the pan from the oven. You can smell the sage and lemon wafting off the dish and now it’s nice and piping hot.

Daniel does, in the end, find something to serve the chicken with, and some loose forks and knives floating around a drawer that are suitable for eating it. He and Johnny drag the coffee table closer to the couch.

Saltimbocca is hearty enough that it’ll test the integrity of the paper plates; Daniel likes their chances better if they eat it off an actual surface. When Johnny takes his first bite, Daniel waits with bated breath.

Johnny chews for a moment, then swallows. He sees that Daniel is waiting for his verdict and sighs melodramatically.

“You win, LaRusso. This is solid.”

He’d hoped for something a little more effusive than 'solid', but the way Johnny starts shoveling the chicken into his mouth with gusto says a lot. Daniel basks in the warm feeling unfolding in his chest.

***

A couple innings in, some nobody who just graduated from the minor leagues is leaving the dugout, and over the speakers blares a familiar bridge:

_So it’s hard to find_

_Someone with that kind of intensity_

_You touched my hand I played it cool_

_And you reached out your hand for me._

_But if our paths never cross_

_Well no I’m not sorry but-_

_If I live to see the seven wonders_...

Daniel's hands, which had been making quick work of the saltimbocca, go unsteady, and he drops his knife. He feels faint, and if Daniel didn't know better he'd guess this is the onset of delirium.

But it's not. It's the stupid song.

"Oh my god," Johnny scoffs, oblivious to Daniel's reaction: "Who picks Fleetwood Mac for their walk-up music – and Seven Wonders? That’s a deep cut. At least go for The Chain, something with a beat – not this mushy shit!"

Daniel figures he should say something, keep up a front of normalcy. He gets out an ‘ _uh-huh_ ’, but it comes out so strangled you'd think a boa constrictor was about to pop his neck.

Johnny turns to look at him, concerned.

"'s wrong with you?" he asks, still chewing a hunk of prosciutto.

"Nothing," Daniel says unconvincingly, plucking the collar of his shirt and gazing at the floor (really, looking anywhere but Johnny's face).

"Bullshit nothing," says Johnny. "You feelin' sick or something?"

"No," Daniel says, wishing he was quick or cunning enough to deflect questions he doesn’t want to answer. "It's just the song. It's, um, a funny coincidence."

Johnny's brow furrows.

"How so?" he asks. Daniel shakes his head, though not with any hope that this will get him off the hook.

"This song kind of... makes me think of you," he admits, chasing the words with a weak laugh like that'll make it go down easy. Johnny stiffens next to him; he can both see and feel the change.

"Gonna tell me why that is?"

Daniel laughs again, mirthlessly.

"Not sure I can explain. Uh. Well, the intensity part, obviously. You were so intense it was contagious, made me feel things all out of proportion. And then, after the AVF fight, when you gave me the trophy. You brushed my hand and it was just..."

Daniel almost loses the thread, but Johnny's staring at him like this is something important, so he forces himself to continue.

"It was a moment that came back to me sometimes. And I wondered if we'd meet again, ever, and then we did, we were reunited. You know: ' _If I hope and if I pray, it might work out some day_.'"

Johnny makes a sort of guttural sound and swivels his head to look at him.

"LaRusso, you keep saying shit like that. And it's romantic and poetical and all, and it makes me want to suck face, but if we do that and you run off again after, we're gonna have a problem.”

And that’s fair, he deserves that, but he also doesn’t know how _not_ to fuck this up. Daniel gnaws on the inside of his cheek. Makes himself take a deep breath.

"I’m sorry I left," he says, plunging into his fear like an ice-covered lake. "I... wasn't thinking right. Amanda and Sam didn't know where I'd gone, they were panicking."

"Yeah?" Johnny says, unimpressed. "Just them?"

Daniel forgets how shrewd Johnny can be, when he wants to. He tries to think of an answer that’s honest without being too compromising.

"Tuesday was a lot to process, OK?" Daniel concedes. " I saw the pictures and everything just went sideways and the next thing I know I'm ducking a PTA meeting and driving to your apartment and then we're kissing and we're naked in your bed and... it was all very... spur of the moment, you know?"

"Does that mean you regret it?" Johnny asks, a little warily.

Daniel runs a hand over his face.

"No, not that," Daniel manages. "I just," he clears his throat to try and marshal the right words. "We're grown men. But when you're near me I feel this - compulsion. That I haven’t dealt with that since I was a teenager, maybe not even then.”

Johnny drains the last of his beer as he mulls this over.

"So... your problem with this is I make you too horny?"

Daniel wants to congratulate Johnny for being so obnoxiously reductive, except he's not entirely wrong. The impulsivity that Johnny brings out - the way a gesture or a word from Johnny can convince his autonomic nervous system that he _needs_ to mash their faces together, it bothers him.

Like how if you touch a hot burner your hand will retract on its own, without you thinking - but the exact opposite of that. Instead, Daniel flinches _towards_ Johnny, and it's unsettling, feeling like some marionette being yanked around by your dick when normally your brain's in the driver’s seat.

Johnny snorts.

“That’s it, isn’t it? I rev up your sex drive and you’re _complaining_ about it?”

"It's very distracting!", Daniel snaps, feeling belittled.

"Maybe it's distracting because you’re not taking care of it," Johnny says, voice somehow bitter and suggestive at the same time.

“How d'you mean?”

Johnny gives him a withering look, like: _'Do I really need to put the pieces together for you, LaRusso?_ '. But when Daniel doesn't budge, he sighs and continues.

“Well, Danielle, memories like that tend to pop up. I mean, look at my neck - hard to see that and _not_ remember you mauling me all over the apartment. Best way to cope with distracting shit like that is to get off, and get on with your business.”

 _Oh_.

“Uh. How many times did you...”

Johnny’s mouth quirks up, but he’s not ready to humor Daniel just yet.

“Jerk off? What’s it to you?” he says, affecting indifference. It’s meant to piss Daniel off, and it works. He makes a sound of disbelief.

“You know what it is to me, don’t play dumb –“

And then Johnny lunges towards Daniel, and whether it culminates in a punch or a kiss, all Daniel can think is: ' _Thank god, please put me out of my misery_.'

Fortunately, Johnny isn’t interested in taking a swing at him. There’s a minor struggle, but it's just Johnny grabbing his flank and shoulder and steering Daniel in, until they mirror each other. Daniel is kind of crestfallen when he lets go.

He’s not sure what’s next, but he tucks one of his legs up under him for leverage just in case. Daniel’s relieved to find that once they’re facing each other, Johnny can’t keep up the aloof act for long.

Also, Daniel's not much better. Every time he looks into Johnny's eyes, he feels a little disoriented, like half his life was just a fever dream and they're right back to being young. He leans in because he’s powerless not to, such is Johnny’s gravitational pull - but Johnny's mouth tightens and he shies away.

So. Not out of the doghouse yet.

Johnny gives up their staring contest, dips his eyes down over Daniel's chest. Daniel sends a silent prayer of thanks to Sam for making him change outfits. The blue sweater seems to pass muster for Johnny, because he's clearly torn between the urge to talk and the urge to... not.

"I'm playing dumb," Johnny finally repeats. “That’s rich. What were those texts you sent me then, huh?” He parrots one of Daniel’s messages in a heinous Jersey accent:

‘ _Did you see Black Belt’s top 20 martial arts movies? Bruce Lee got robbed!_ ’

“I’m an idiot, Johnny, I get it!” Daniel hisses. “I was scared, so I pretended nothing had changed even though everything had.”

Johnny’s eyes snap back up, so at least he’s listening. Daniel continues:

“I already said I’m sorry, I’ll keep saying it, or cook for you every night, or I don't know, get a Metallica tramp stamp, or I could make it up to you right now if you’d just let me touch you!"

And really, Daniel was just throwing things out there, seeing what sticks, but it’s clear as day which offer hits the mark. When Daniel ends on ‘touch you’ Johnny shivers like he _felt_ that, like it was a caress instead of just words. He’s been going about conflict resolution all wrong with Johnny.

For years Daniel’s dealt with Johnny’s aggression, his belligerence, the way he rains hell down when his pride is wounded. Now he’s learning that Johnny is capable of surrender, too, and it hasn’t ceased to amaze him yet.

"You gonna let me make it up to you, Johnny?" Daniel tries again, crossing the distance between them to put his hand on Johnny's thigh. This is a strategy he can work with.

Johnny inhales like Daniel’s touch sucked the air clean out of his lungs. And yeah, there’s still some residual pride there – he’s withholding permission, even though it’s obvious what he wants from the tent in his jeans.

But, Johnny’s stubbornness is a hurdle Daniel can easily overcome. He’s made his living being persuasive, and Johnny very much wants to be persuaded.

Daniel puts the hand that’s fastened onto Johnny’s thigh to work, starts kneading the muscle a little and inching slowly northwards. Daniel watches Johnny from under his lashes, lets the heat in his blood permeate his touch, his face, his gaze..

"You let me feed you, yeah?" Daniel coaxes. This time, Johnny does nod, a sign that the edifice of resistance is starting to crumble.

"Good," Daniel soothes. "Now let me take care of the rest of you, huh?"

Daniel palms at the bulge in Johnny's jeans for a moment, just a tease. Johnny moans and his hips pitch up, and well, whether it was Daniel's excellent rhetoric that won out or the fondling will remain a mystery.

This time, when Daniel leans in, Johnny sways to meet him. Daniel buries his free hand in Johnny’s hair, ghosts over the yellowing bruises on his neck on the ride up. Johnny breathes out his nose but doesn’t break the silence.

And thank god. Thank god it’s every bit as good as the first time. Daniel uses his grip on Johnny’s hair to angle him just right, devours Johnny like he’s been wanting to. Licks over his mouth, nuzzles against his stubble, travels his hand down to cup the base of Johnny’s skull where his hair is shortest.

Johnny acts like he wants it just as bad, and it finally brings to heel the jealousy that's been running rampant through Daniel's body for days. Johnny returns his hand to Daniel’s side, where it never should have left. When Daniel nips at his bottom lip Johnny gasps and squirms.

“Yeah, yes,” Daniel says, though nothing’s been said that needs his affirmation.

He's seen proof of it twice, but still can scarcely believe that being touched by Daniel is potent enough to make Johnny go against the grain of his nature. To make him yield. Which raises the question – just what will Johnny let him do while he’s under this spell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued! This chapter got kinda long so had to cut it off somewhere. Dear readers, please suspend your disbelief for the whole 'Seven Wonders' as walk-up music bit. I was tempted to go with something punchier (e.g., Can't Fight This Feeling, given their shared appreciation for REO Speedwagon) but it felt a little too on-the-nose and I wanted some soft Fleetwood Mac, goshdarnit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daniel realizes his life has become a rom-com.

Johnny braces his forehead against Daniel's for a moment, sighs contentedly.

"How come I have the rep for fighting dirty?" he muses. "Look at the shit you do to get your way."

Daniel might have to cop to that. Johnny makes him hungry in a way that short-circuits his higher-order thinking, makes him unconcerned with what’s fair and right and logical. He can’t help himself at all.

When Johnny skims a hand down to his hip, Daniel digs his nails into Johnny’s neck and leg, desperate for purchase. The touching is nice, but they should be kissing. He doesn’t like that they’re not kissing.

"You getting tired, old-timer?" he goads. "Should I wait for you to catch a second wind?"

The provocation does what it was meant to. Johnny fists his hands at Daniel's collar and hauls him right over until Daniel practically spills onto his lap.

With someone else Daniel would complain about stretching out the neck of his nice sweater. With Johnny his drive to get closer, always closer, outweighs any fussiness about wear and tear on his clothes.

Johnny fastens his red, bitten mouth against Daniel's and it displaces all the thoughts swimming around in his head. Capsizes the balance wheel, beaches the koi fish, everything gone. Except.

Daniel tears himself away long enough to say what's been bothering him for the past half hour.

"Don't call me LaRusso when we're alone," he asks. "I mean, when we're out, sure. But not here."

"I dunno," Johnny drawls, "a first name basis seems awfully familiar."

His eyes are twinkling, so Daniel knows he's just messing around, but he doesn't want Johnny workshopping his jokes when Daniel's seducing him. He wants him focused.

Johnny's focus would probably be improved without the background noise of the game. They don't need the diversion of sports anymore, now that they're working through their problems like adults. Which is to say, with sex.

Daniel pushes off the cushion and straddles Johnny's lap. Johnny claps his hands on his hips instantly. He restarts the kissing at close range and knocks loose an ‘ _mmph_ ’ from Johnny’s diaphragm.

Unfortunately, the sound is mostly swallowed by a loud cheer from the crowd on TV, probably over some hail-mary catch an outfielder made.

Daniel pulls back. “Shut off the game,” he says.

Johnny grunts like he’s confused, but then Daniel nestles his mouth up against Johnny’s ear and connects the dots for him.

“I want to hear you, not them, Johnny,” he says, low and distinct.

Johnny groans properly then, before he closes his mouth and tries to smother it. And he’d been blushing a little before, but that’s nothing to now. Now Johnny’s so pink he blends in with his own shirt.

If there’s a tremor in Johnny’s hand as he retrieves the remote from where it’d fallen on the couch, Daniel’s not about to call him on it. The TV is off, so he got what he wanted.

Lately he's been on a real streak, getting what he wants. It seems like all he has to do is reach out and take it, so he does. Daniel releases the hand that had been guiding Johnny’s head, drops it down to flirt with the hem of Johnny’s shirt.

Insinuates his hands underneath the cotton and drags his palms right up Johnny’s torso, hiking the fabric as he goes. Johnny lets him; holds his arms aloft so Daniel can remove his shirt completely. Once it’s off, Johnny flings the balled-up cloth away with prejudice.

Biologists would probably give their right arm to bottle whatever the essence of Johnny Lawrence is, whatever makes him look this good, have the stamina he does, in defiance of age and logic.

Daniel is a little transfixed by the pink flush spilling down Johnny's neck, shoulders, pecs. He's tempted to see how far the blush goes but the longer he looks at the planes of Johnny's chest, the dumber and woozier he feels. He very much wants full command of his faculties right now.

He kisses Johnny again because he can’t not, but tries to put his hands to good use. Molds his palms against Johnny's pecs and Johnny surges up into it, huffs these little moans in between kisses.

The heat of Johnny is formidable, almost scalding to the touch. The inside of his mouth is hot, too, and Daniel is maybe a little addicted to kissing him. He keeps sucking on Johnny’s tongue, demanding his full and undivided attention.

Being pressed against a human furnace starts to get to him, make him sweat. It's so oppressive that soon Daniel has to shove back to take off his sweater and undershirt, which were probably chafing Johnny's skin anyway.

He feels a little exposed and ridiculous, a middle-aged dad astride another middle-aged dad, shirtless on the couch. Johnny seems untroubled, though, or at least is effectively sidetracked by Daniel losing his layers.

Daniel's surprised Johnny's stare isn’t boring holes in his flesh. While it’s good that Johnny is into the merchandise, Daniel can only stand being scrutinized for so long. He falls back on kissing Johnny (which hasn't disappointed so far).

Johnny sticks with the program for a while, but eventually tips his chin up. Daniel tries to follow, refusing to detach, but gets the distinct sense that Johnny doesn't want to stay lip-locked forever. Is maybe trying to lure Daniel down to his neck.

It's a very nice neck, but it's still bruised, still bears the proof of Daniel’s desire. If Daniel goes for round two, Johnny might have to wear a travel pillow everywhere.

“You sure?” he asks, kissing soft down Johnny’s throat with great restraint. “You don’t even know how to cover them, and the last ones are still healing.”

Johnny voices an exasperated sound.

“Are you making shit up to me or not?”

Even if it’s not the most discreet thing to do, Daniel is willing to humor Johnny – but. There’s some give and take to be had here.

"Of course I'm making it up to you, I'm a man of my word," Daniel assures. "Just ask me nicely."

Manners aren't his strong-suit, but Daniel's sure Johnny can figure out a little etiquette if properly motivated. He swipes his tongue against one of the tendons standing out on Johnny's neck, sets his teeth against the ridge of it and sucks lightly without really clamping down.

He keeps his left hand on Johnny's ample chest but travels his right down, tucks his fingers into the denim crease where thigh meets groin. Johnny definitely responds to that. A rough-edged sound scrapes out of his throat and he spreads his legs, easy as you like.

"C'mon, please," he mumbles.

"Please who?" Daniel prompts.

"Please _Daniel_ , you fuckin' narcissist," Johnny growls.

Daniel's not sure why he processes it differently when Johnny says his name, doesn't know what quirk of neural wiring makes him crazy for it, but the enigma of the thing doesn't matter. Only how it makes him want to fuck Johnny ‘til his brain is such a soup of endorphins, he can’t string two words together.

Which means Johnny is about to get everything he wants, in spades.

Daniel can’t avoid looking any longer, has to navigate by sight as he pops the button on Johnny’s fly, inches the zipper down. The way Johnny’s straining against the front of his jeans makes it sort of a precarious operation. And then Johnny is halfway freed and Daniel is awestruck.

“Oh my god, you’re so wet already,” he rasps. There’s a distinct wet spot where Johnny’s worn boxers have gone translucent. He can’t help but explore it with his thumb, press the glossy, tacky fabric against the outline of Johnny’s head.

“Shut up,” Johnny says, but he fails to inject any real malice because it’s mostly breath. Daniel’s confident he doesn’t mean it, either, so he keeps mapping Johnny’s dick through his boxers, lets his other fingers join the party. And, true to his word, starts making a mess of Johnny’s neck.

Johnny doesn't want the kid glove treatment; he's made that clear. So Daniel lets himself bite, fierce and unforgiving. Applies himself to the underside of Johnny's jaw, fastens onto it with teeth and tongue. When he pulls back for a moment you can almost see where his canines stippled Johnny's skin.

It's not something Daniel thought himself capable of, before, and maybe Johnny didn't figure it either, but the way he shudders and pants at the treatment suggests it is a very pleasant surprise.

Being desired by Johnny, watching him flinch and hearing his bitten-off sounds, is like a drug. It makes everything recede into the background. He's a little frightened of how all-consuming it is, knows that the closer they get to actual sex ( _not now, don't think about that now_ ) the more he’ll get lost.

Johnny seems not at all conflicted about the pleasure he's feeling. In high school Johnny was basically an avatar of the Id; Daniel had resented that he was so impulsive, led around by his feelings and often punishing him for it.

Daniel’s less mad about that ‘giving into your urges’ tendency when it manifests like this, Johnny unabashedly rutting into his hand.

The kind thing would probably be to let Johnny out of his boxers, and Daniel believes in balance - yin to offset yang, compassion to counter aggression. He carefully reaches through the splayed-open fly of Johnny's jeans and guides him through the flap of his boxers.

God - Johnny really is a catch. No pharmaceuticals needed here, his erection is hot and hard and eager for Daniel's hand just like before. And so wet; that was no exaggeration, even if Johnny got all blustery when he dared to mention it.

Daniel stops tenderizing the join of Johnny's shoulder for a moment to let himself look again. Johnny raises his head to do the same, but then twists away like the sight of his dick leaking all over Daniel's hand is too much to stand.

“Can’t believe you jerked off thinking about us,” Daniel marvels, “and still have this much saved up.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Johnny gasps, jackknifing underneath him. “Your mouth should come with one of those 'parent advisory' stickers.”

Daniel waits for Johnny to settle before he starts stroking in earnest.

It feels good, knowing that for all Johnny's protestations, he seems to get off twice as fast when Daniel talks to him, lets himself think out loud. Daniel is widely known as a motor-mouth, but he'd kind of turned off that part of his personality when it came to his marriage bed.

And it's perfectly valid, being particular about what your partner says to you mid-coitus. But knowing his words might go astray, Daniel had kept his pillow talk... scripted.

He'd pepper in the occasional 'yes' and 'yeah', croon something about how beautiful she was, maybe try to enhance the mood with an 'I love you, baby'. But with Johnny, there's no filter, no guardrail. He just lets his mouth run and Johnny _likes_ it, covets it, responds to it.

"If, when you think about this later, don't masturbate, just call me," Daniel says, with a complete lack of premeditation. "I'll, shit, stop what I'm doing and I'll come over, jerk you off."

Johnny's eyes had fallen closed, but they shoot open.

"That's - that's a terrible idea," he stutters, even as he chases Daniel's hand like it’s the best proposal he’s ever heard. "We'd never get shit done. Lost count of how many times I - _uh_ \- I came since Tuesday, thanks to you."

Though it's technically a refusal, Daniel likes that answer. He tightens his grip until Johnny is just dripping. Daniel is blindsided with the sudden thought that he wants to taste him.

That's - well, another unexplored frontier. But he thinks it can work. Just watching Johnny take his pleasure sends Daniel into a frenzy. So, as long as Johnny is enthusiastic about Daniel sucking his dick, it’ll be fine. Decision made, Daniel catches Johnny’s mouth for another kiss before revealing his grand design.

“You should let me suck you off,” he tells Johnny, already angling him down to lay on the couch – but. Johnny’s eyes bug out like Daniel’s said something distressing, and he resists.

"Jesus, _don't_ blow me on my living room couch," Johnny sputters, looking alarmed.

Daniel retreats and Johnny modifies in a hurry:

"I mean, definitely blow me, just not here. You'll give me that syndrome, with the bell and the drooling dog."

"You mean a Pavlovian response?" suggests Daniel, with only a little condescension.

"Sure, whatever," Johnny allows. "If you suck me off here, I'll never come near this couch without getting hard again. What if I have Miguel over? I’ll have to think of my Aunt Flo's saggy tits every 3 seconds so I don't wind up on a registry!"

Daniel grimaces and draws himself back into a sitting position.

"You could've just said let's move to the bedroom, Johnny. I hope to god I never meet that woman at a family reunion."

Johnny shrugs. “She’s dead, so I doubt it. But have it your way – let’s move to the bedroom.”

While Daniel is busy being disgruntled, trying not to imagine the droopy bosom of dearly departed Aunt Flo, Johnny tucks himself back into his boxers.

Daniel is about to get up and make for the bedroom when Johnny plants his feet, scoops his hands under Daniel’s ass, and levers him up off the couch. Hitches him up like it's barely a strain, like Daniel taxes his muscles only a little more than a bag of mulch.

"Uh," Daniel says, stupefied. He's never experienced this, obviously. It’s a lot. It seems like the kind of stunt that should happen on one of Sam’s sexy teen dramas.

‘ _How are you real_?’ he thinks. And is glad for not voicing that particular thought, because it’s an embarrassing thing to advertise. It's just. What mold did they break, when they made Johnny?

His hair, his face, his fucking biceps, undiminished 34 years later. This pinnacle of athleticism, who is for some reason carrying his skinny ass to his bedroom. Daniel tucks into the lee of Johnny's neck, feels a little more grounded when he picks up the same woodsy scent from before.

Johnny notices as they cross the threshold.

"I, uh, I might've put on cologne,” he confesses. “Carmen said it made me smell like a lumberjack. Is it weird?" 

"I like it," Daniel says earnestly. He kisses Johnny again, knocks their foreheads together after a little light plundering of Johnny's mouth.

"Now, will you please put me down? You have thoroughly proven your manliness."

Johnny must agree, because he deposits Daniel on the bed. It’s no less messy today than it was three days ago. Good to have a few constants in life, he supposes. Daniel shucks off his jeans then tosses them away, in keeping with the whole ‘entropy’ vibe of the room.

For a second Johnny just stands at the side of the mattress, paralyzed. Still gorgeous, still hard, still blushing from hairline to navel. It’s all very nice to look at, but Daniel can’t reach him over there.

“You gonna just stare at me, or you going to take off your pants and let me blow you? I seem to recall a rule about no pants in bed,” he says.

The haze in Johnny’s eyes dissipates. He wrestles his jeans down and then he’s crawling on top of Daniel, caging him in with his arms and absurdly square shoulders.

Daniel draws him down for another kiss and is taken aback by how much he likes it, the feeling of being sheltered by Johnny. If he didn’t have an objective, he could go on like this for a while. But needs must.

Daniel gets his leg around Johnny and flips their positions, assumes a low crouch between Johnny’s thighs. Johnny seems dazed, but not displeased. Daniel plants a kiss on his sternum, brackets Johnny’s hips with his hands.

“So fucking hot all the time, Johnny,” he rambles. “Make me crazy.”

Johnny squirms and groans. Daniel commits the texture of the sound to memory as he descends, drops a sucking kiss next to Johnny’s belly button. It’s amazing, watching Johnny’s chest rise and fall like a bellows just from how hard he’s breathing.

Daniel noses at the trail of dirty-blond hair that vanishes into Johnny’s boxers and Johnny gasps. Then, as if to reclaim a little dignity, he says:

"Just watch your gopher teeth, Romeo."

Daniel _knows_ he has big teeth, but the impertinence of Johnny bringing it up now? He can't help but be a little incensed. While his brain is working on a comeback, his hand goes rogue and smacks Johnny on the thigh.

Johnny keens and his head snaps back, because apparently whenever you throw Johnny an erotic curve ball and he likes it, he goes a little epileptic. Is it wrong to find that sexy?

It's tempting to explore that more, but Daniel is a man on a mission. The goal is to give Johnny a killer blowjob, not to investigate how red the outside of his thigh can get. That can be a project for another time.

He steadies his hand and sends it to tug at the waistband of Johnny's boxers instead. Not to remove them, just to pull them down an inch and imply that he _could_ free Johnny, if he felt generous.

Daniel starts pressing his mouth to the pale band of skin revealed by this new low-tide mark, works inward from Johnny's hipbone to right above his dick. Johnny's moans disintegrate into whines.

So far, Daniel's prophecy is fulfilled in every way. The secondhand pleasure from teasing Johnny has got him flattened out, rubbing off against the sheets. Daniel gets closer, glides his cheek against Johnny’s trapped erection.

He's hard enough that it's tight to his body, stays put as Daniel nuzzles at it. Things kick into high gear when he licks the dark patch over Johnny's head; Johnny sobs and clamps his hand around Daniel’s wrist. Daniel pauses to see what’s up. It takes a moment for Johnny to compose himself.

"You're a fuckin' ringer," Johnny accuses breathlessly. "You've done this before."

Daniel laughs and takes another pass with his tongue. "I think I'd know, Johnny."

Johnny doesn’t have a rejoinder to that, just sighs. Daniel gets back to licking. He doesn't really mind the precum; it's salty, a little sterile-tasting, and unmistakably masculine, but not bad. He decides to make a serious study of it, sucks at the tip.

"Daniel, please, _please_ , take them off," Johnny begs.

The double-please is new and tantalizing. Though, Johnny’s tone is a smidge dramatic; the cloth's about as thick as wet tissue paper, so he’s getting plenty of stimulation.

“Fine,” he says. He frees both hands to pluck at the elastic, lift the waistband over his hard-on, and drag the boxers down his stupid muscular legs. Daniel isn’t being coy anymore, is scared he’ll chicken out if he waits too long. To stay in the zone, he wraps his right hand around the base of Johnny’s cock.

Johnny slings an arm over his eyes; another pattern for the list. He's got a low tolerance for watching Daniel do X-rated things, seems to get overwhelmed every time he tries. Daniel coasts on that pleasing thought as he swipes his tongue over the tip of Johnny’s dick.

Johnny's breath rushes out, an airlock suddenly depressurized. His quads tense and Daniel can tell it's because he's holding himself down, being considerate. All the same, he anchors Johnny's hips with his free hand again.

First it's just delicate pressure, tentative licks. Johnny fumbles a breath when he firms his tongue up, probes at the slit. Daniel decides he can hack this, purses around the head and sucks a little. Johnny hums, high-pitched, bites his lip, and grabs for the headboard.

Daniel remembers that his hand isn't just there to prop Johnny's dick up (it doesn't need the help) and starts squeezing and stroking a little.

Even when Johnny's breathing through his nose, trying to be quiet, there are tells. He can hear the friction of every shuddering exhale as it catches at the back of Johnny's throat. And he loves how red Johnny is all over. How he's broken into a sweat that lights up the exquisite angles of his body; his upper lip, his clavicle, his xyphoid process.

Huh. Maybe he retained more of that anatomy and physiology class than he thought. All he was missing was Johnny as a study guide.

When Daniel clears the head and fits the shaft right to the groove of his tongue, Johnny's moans turn resonant. The more he swallows, the deeper he dips, the more Johnny vibrates all over like a struck tuning fork.

He's not delusional, he doesn’t try any advanced moves – caps it at few inches so he doesn’t risk choking. But he can tell this is plenty to take Johnny apart.

He can be good enough. He can push Johnny until any trace of stoicism falls away, until he’s hooked, until he only wants Daniel the way Daniel only wants him.

He starts pumping his hand and moving his mouth in concert, so it's one protracted motion, up and down. If the sounds weren’t a giveaway, the way Johnny’s dick is weeping, painting his tongue, seems a pretty good indication of how much he’s into this.

And, if Daniel's being honest, he's pretty into this too. Johnny's enthusiasm - the way he looks, feels, tastes, sounds under him - is compelling. He hasn't stopped humping the bed since this experiment started, and that's going to build to something sooner rather than later.

Which, actually... could be a problem. Daniel retreats, tries not to think about how he’s leaving Johnny’s dick substantially messier than he found it. Johnny gulps a few ragged breaths.

“We should talk,” Daniel croaks, rediscovering his voice. Johnny's eyes slit open.

"You're joking," he says, incredulous. "You’re either joking, or I'm about to throw you out of my goddamn apartment."

Daniel babbles: “It’s just, uh, I’m getting pretty close, and last time I passed out right after I came and we didn’t talk and maybe we should do that?”

Johnny pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying not to punch somebody – which may not be far from the truth.

“Talk about what?” he grits out.

Daniel takes a deep breath.

“I. You aren’t some throwaway lay, for me. I like you. I mean, you drive me insane, but I - yeah.”

Johnny doesn't quite make eye contact, but he splays his hand over Daniel's arm in a way that seems - encouraging. Affectionate.

"And I don't want to see anyone else," Daniel plows on, his heart palpitating. "And I. Was hoping you'd let me take you out for dinner, maybe."

Johnny chews on this, clears his throat before answering.

"I mean, you offered me orgasms on demand. I'd have to be braindead to turn down that kind of action."

It takes a second to realize this is Johnny-speak for yes, but then the words connect and it’s like a current coursing through his body. He smiles at Johnny, Johnny smiles back. The rush makes him understand, for the first time, why women swoon in the old black-and-white classics.

Then the 'orgasms on demand' bit clicks into place. Daniel's words, uttered in the heat of the moment, finally return to haunt him.

"Oh jeez, I did say that,” Daniel gulps. “Uh. I was a little out of sorts. Seem to go crazy a lot when you’re involved. I ran into this married chick from WVH who wanted your number and I might’ve, uh, implied she was...”

“A whore?” Johnny asks (with undisguised glee).

“Unfaithful,” Daniel amends. “So there you go. You make me nuts. Like, parasite in the brain crazy.”

"Jesus, is this how you talk to women?” Johnny laughs. “How’d you ever get laid?"

Daniel smacks him again in retaliation. Johnny isn’t put out, grabs the nape of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. The sweetness of it is strange, learning that they can harmonize in this way. It's almost hard to believe that this, them being happy together, is real. Daniel stops gnawing on Johnny’s lip for a moment.

“Just to be clear,“ he presses, “we’re dating, right? Like, exclusively?”

Johnny rolls his eyes so hard, it's a miracle his retinas don't detach – but ultimately caves.

"Yeah, Danielle. We're dating."

And then they’re smiling again, and then they’re kissing again, and it doesn't take very long to find their momentum.

“Will you get fucking naked already?” Johnny snarls, when he finally pulls his mouth away to speak. It sounds mean, but Daniel understands this is just his way of venting the heat.

"Of course," he agrees. He's perfectly willing to get naked, has half a mind to never wear clothes again in Johnny's company. But he’s not a complete pushover, either.

Before Daniel gets his legs back under him, he takes a quick detour to Johnny's ear so he can suck the lobe and ask:

"You always this impatient, baby?"

Johnny goes beet red. If he were a less prudent man, Daniel would snap a picture of this, maybe keep this photo in his wallet instead of those full-body glamour shots everybody else is fawning over.

But, he's got some self-preservation instincts. Daniel does as he was bid, rears up to peel his briefs off. Johnny is watching, looking like the suspense is killing him. Biting his lip when Daniel eases back down on top of him.

Daniel could sink minutes and hours into kissing Johnny, but he did pull a sex foul by interrupting the blowjob to talk relationship stuff. Daniel seizes Johnny's hip again and shimmies down to kiss over his heart.

"Should I..." he starts, hoping Johnny will fill in the blank.

Johnny nods vigorously.

"Uh-huh, please," he sighs - no bark, no bite, all polite. And so Daniel obliges.

He’s more confident this time; the first round was a pretty solid proof of concept. He rewraps his right hand around Johnny’s dick and darts his tongue over the head only once or twice before getting down to business.

Johnny expels a hot little ' _haah_ ' that jumps up the scale, spiking higher at the end. Daniel builds up to the pace he’d set before, slowfastslow suction and pumping that gets Johnny moaning so loud he crams his knuckles in his mouth to block the sound.

Daniel was first exposed to ‘knuckle-biter’ when his homophobic fossil of a grandpa flung it after some effeminate boy from the neighborhood. Maybe he’s catching up with the times, because now he thinks that phrase is the best thing he’s ever heard.

Daniel tries deploying his move from before, adds a gentle twist when his hand snugs up under the frenulum. Johnny rewards that with a louder moan. He fancies that if he reached out to touch Johnny's femoral artery, he’d feel the staccato of his pulse just under his fingertip. Still, he could do with a little more feedback.

“Good?” Daniel pulls back to ask, thoroughly hoarse now.

Johnny is in tatters, soaked with sweat and winded, but he rallies to the cause.

"You know it's... bad form... to stop blowing somebody to fish for compliments, right?"

That tears it. Daniel ducks down and licks right over the seam of Johnny's ballsack. Predictably, this puts an end to the attitude, and now Johnny has no fingers to muffle his reaction.

“ _Ohshit_ , that’s – be _careful_ down there, Daniel,” he gasps.

Daniel is not interested in hearing another jab about his teeth, so he opens his mouth to suck until Johnny's barely saying words at all. Eventually he pauses, considers his next move.

"If I let go, will you stay still?" Daniel asks. He has a feeling Johnny's not firing on all cylinders right now, so he flexes his anchoring hand against Johnny's hip for emphasis. Johnny nods and gives a little subvocal ‘ _mhm_ ’.

Daniel relinquishes his hip, creeps his left hand in to roll Johnny’s balls as he seals his mouth back over his very wet, very swollen dick. Goes for the tried-and-true formula, alternates fast and slow, works Johnny over like the accomplished cocksucker half the town thinks he is. It’s more coordination than he’s used to, using both hands and his mouth at once, but Daniel’s never shied away from a challenge.

And, it helps that Johnny loves it.

" _Fuck_ , like that, please," Johnny hisses, and does that thing again – tosses his head and fists his hands in the sheets, white-knuckled.

Daniel gives it his all, jerks him harder and faster and plies his tongue right against the flare of Johnny’s head.

"Shit, _Daniel_ , yeah, I’m gonna - just - let me come, OK, I'll suck you off after or you can--"

Daniel doesn't find out what he can, because Johnny cuts himself off with a series of hitching cries and spills in his mouth. It's more than enough to send him over the edge, too.

The taste is more of the same; salty, a little bleachy, nothing that makes him gag or anything. He swallows, because Johnny isn’t the type to keep tissues on his night stand (and he doesn't want anyone's socks desecrated tonight).

He feels a bit gross for coming all over Johnny's sheets, but they're in desperate need of laundering anyway, so.

The crash follows the climax, like last time. Daniel drags himself up Johnny’s bed, is surprised when Johnny kisses him despite his recent below-the-belt activities. They spoon. It’s nice. He’s just starting to fade a little when Johnny asks:

“You’re not going to sneak off after I fall asleep, right?”

Daniel rolls over to face Johnny, still guilt-stricken.

“No! No. Definitely not,” he promises, speaking too loud like it will hammer home his sincerity. “I uh, told Amanda I might not be back ‘til tomorrow. My overnight bag is in the car.”

Johnny smiles at that, soft and unguarded. They sink back into spooning position. But then:

"'Overnight bag.' I bet you're real prepared," he snickers. "Can't wait to find out how many different mouthwashes you use. Three?”

Daniel’s travel kit in fact has a 3-in-1 mouthwash, but he doesn’t think Johnny will appreciate the distinction. So he replies:

“Laugh it up, asshole. You’ll be real glad you were too cool for Listerine when you’re getting your fifth root canal.”

And Johnny does laugh, and squeeze him, and then they’re nodding off.

***

In a fit of conscience, Daniel buys Johnny concealer. He doesn't nail his skin tone perfectly, but at least the shade's in the right color family. And, if Johnny's left to his own devices, who knows what he'd use - spackling compound, maybe.

Johnny is mystified by the applicator, so Daniel has to help him figure it out. Between the two of them, they achieve coverage that is patchy, but definitely better than nothing. The whole thing feels like a bit of a farce, but less so when Johnny gruffly thanks him at the end and pecks him on the lips.

***

In the end, Daniel fails to contain the pictures, but he does get the guy in them – which is probably what he wanted all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jiminy Christmas, this chapter got long! And horny! But we’re all branching out and trying new things this year, right?!?

**Author's Note:**

> DONE AT LAST! To everyone who's been showing love, thank you! Seeing your kudos & reading your comments sustains me! Finally, shoutout to that interview where Ralph Macchio says (of Billy) "he's still the bull and I'm still the china shop" and carries on about Johnny being built like an athlete for inspiring the whole physical dynamic between them in part II. A hero for our age!
> 
> P.S.: Thought about adding the tag: 'Daniel LaRusso, unexpected blowjob savant" but discounted it as being too extra and kind of offensive besides. Correct? Incorrect? You be the judge!


End file.
